


waning

by lovethybooty



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Annie-Centric, Coping, D4, District Four, Healing, One Shot, Other, Panem, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Series, Slow Process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovethybooty/pseuds/lovethybooty
Summary: will they still want her when there’s nothing left?





	waning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oh_so_loverly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_so_loverly/gifts).



> my 2018 comeback is sponsored by joanna's birthday <3
> 
> enjoy :)
> 
> ps, i no longer use capital letters because i'm a slave to the aesthetic yikes

there’s a cut on her wrist an inch deep. in the bathroom, she’ll stand before the sink and try to scrub it clean. the soap stings, but she does her best to swallow the pain. they **can’t** know what’s happened.

even now her hand works in a nervous pattern — back and forth, back and forth. a coarse wash rag has worn inflamed skin raw and yet there’s something almost calming in the repetition of it. she’ll cling to that feeling in place of any sort of real comfort, she’ll try to convince herself that this is fine.

of course she hadn’t _meant_ to scratch herself silly. hadn’t meant for blood to soak through her tunic or swirl down the drain. thick and hot, she had watched it drip into the basin. the porcelain had been stained a cherry red, like cough syrup, before streams of clean water could wash it away. and yet for once her self destruction was not born from those _bad feelings_ that cannot ever seem to be choked back, it was not intentional. rather, it was the product of an hour’s worth of absent-minded ticks. what sharp nails turned to after the loose threads from cotton’s hem had been ripped away neat and clean and the tapping became too loud to bear.

and she’ll eye the wound carefully before wrapping it up in loose bandage, the only thing she could find after rooting around in mags’s medicine cabinet. it’s mostly hidden beneath a long sleeve, and she prays to _something_ they won’t notice. hand moves from where it has hovered above her wrist to switch off the faucet. she’ll stop to splash a bit of water on her face first, patting the coolness into red and puffy skin. agitated. she doesn’t want them to know she’s been crying.

she slips from the bathroom as quietly as possible, nudging the door closed with the butt of her shoulder. it squeaks and groans before there’s an audible _click_ , and a grimace tugs at her lips. for a girl who’s spent the last months living as a ghost, she’s not as stealthy as she should be.

the sounds to disturb what was once a peaceful stillness will pull the old woman in from the balcony. she’d been watering her plants outside in the afternoon’s sun when annie had stumbled up the staircase and she was hoping the elder would stay that way until she managed to scurry off again.

the other’s gaze is avoided almost completely, but mags catches her by the wrist.

“annie? is something wrong, dear?”

is it really that _obvious?_ she wonders how the other can tell that something is _**not right**_. is it something in her posture, slouched and sad? or maybe it’s the way she’s attempted to flee head down? the elder is met by near silence, nervous muttering and a head that shakes in response.

“go on — spit it out, girl.”

“nothing’s wro- _aa !_ ”

she’ll jump back a few feet when the woman’s boney thumb presses down against her wrist, pulling it away sharply. but mags is quick to move, and she has her cornered by the bathroom door before annie can even _think_ to escape down the stairs. the elder pushes up her sleeve, fabric bunched at the elbow to reveal the bloody bandage wound in haste.

“ _oh, anabel_ ,” her name is a soft sigh from the elder’s lips, age worn fingers gently tugging at the bandage that encases her arm. she’ll unravel it slowly while annie stands mortified, gaze tipped to the tops of tanned feet because she is unable to look the other in the eye. mags examines the gash that mars her skin. “did you do this to yourself?”

annie isn’t sure how to respond. they both already know the answer is _yes_ , that much is clear.

“would you be mad at me if i said i did?”

she’s met by another sigh, near exasperated. a leathered hand pats her cheek and falls to rest upon her shoulder.

“these nails of your’s have to go.” words are followed by a _tsk_ , the click of her tongue, and yet it’s not quite a chide. there is no detectable **harshness** in her tone, only a resigned sadness that manages to seep through. “you know it’s only because we _care_ about you, dear.”

her answer is a solemn nod. annie’s known for some time that this was coming. she isn’t stupid. it’s not as though finnick’s _comments_ go unnoticed, or that she doesn’t realize what they’re talking about when hushed whispers are passed over coffee mugs in the kitchen. she knows they worry about her. she wishes they wouldn’t.

she also knows she doesn’t _really_ need them anymore — not like she had in the arena. she knows they’re doing her more harm than good, that they’re a lot sharper than they used to be and that this has become a more or less **repeated offense**. but she _wants_ them. and she doesn’t want much. they’re something pretty and long and within her control, they’re something carried over from the _old annie_.

lately it seems every last bit of herself has been chipping, flaking away with late summer’s salty breeze. as though she is a house of cards, fragile enough to be blown down by one puff of air.

will they still want her when there’s nothing left?


End file.
